We all have our neurotic moments, some of us more than others. I was reminded of one I had recently when I saw the red rimmed tupperware container that belongs to my neighbors in my kitchen.
(I am loving the dictionary on my Mac.)
I am thinking of more the second definition, the excessive and irrational anxiety or obsession. Or perhaps I am thinking of the loss of rational behavior, those moments when we are more like George Costanza and Elaine Benes than Jerry Seinfeld. Like George and Elaine, sometimes the person with the neurosis is the last to know, unaware of the havoc their irrationality is having on others.
I had my moment over Halloween weekend. Our neighbors host an annual Halloween pumpkin carving and potluck party in the park. This year, I made three dozen pear muffins. Our other neighbors have a few pear trees, and give us dozens of pears in the fall. Their pears are wonderful to eat by themselves, and are awesome in muffins. So I made three dozen muffins and brought them to the picnic. I made them for another picnic a week earlier and the mayor said they were the best muffins he ever tasted. So that makes it official. These muffins kick ass.
I brought these muffins to the Halloween picnic. I made a fresh batch that morning, with a few modifications. The kids ate a few, and I brought the rest. At the picnic, our neighbor makes soup with turkey meatballs, noodles and kale. It is delicious. There is hot chocolate, hot apple cider, chili, brownies and all sorts of other good stuff. The other picnic is more of a brunch event, where this one is in the late afternoon and fills in for dinner.
As the afternoon wore on, my muffins were barely touched. My husband and I had tickets to see the ballet that night, so we left the picnic early. Of the 36 muffins (minus the few my kids ate prior to the picnic), there were about 29 left. A group of about 50 Asian college students showed up at the park for a pre-UW Husky football game party. For many of them, it was their first American football game. Our neighbor offered to share the food. Most of them were interested in hamburgers cooked on the grill. My muffins stood no chance next to hamburgers. Looking back, I see that bringing these muffins to this picnic was like bringing a quiche to a barbecue. I love quiche and I love barbecue, just not on the same plate.
Long story short -- my kick ass muffins were a dud. Perhaps the Mayor lied or exaggerated -- he was running for re-election at the time. My family left 29 lonely muffins at the picnic.
The next afternoon, my son had Lego Club. He was leaving for 5th Grade Camp early Monday morning. I was not organized on many fronts, so we spent Sunday morning shopping for last minute camp supplies. We were cutting it tight for Lego Club when I called my co-coach. No one had signed up to bring snacks.
At this point, the train starts to come off the track. I should have seen my neuroses coming down at 100 miles per hour, but I did not. I called my husband and asked him to call my neighbors to see if we could get the muffins back so I could bring them to Lego Club.
"Really? You want me to call them to ask for your muffins back?" He could see the craziness of the ask, but I couldn't. He was in a tight spot. If he called me crazy, I would have been mad. If he asked the neighbors for the muffins back, they would think he was crazy.
"Yes." Why was that so hard to believe? I was sparing them from having to dump the duds in the compost and waste the wonderful pears our other neighbors gave to us.
"I don't think they are home..."
"Fine. I'll call them."
I called one neighbor and asked if he knew where my basket and muffins were. He said the host family brought everything home.
"The daughter had a sleepover party last night with eight kids from school," he said. "I doubt there are many left."
I was still on a quest to rescue my orphaned and unloved muffins. I wanted to spare them the humiliation of not being eaten and drying out until they have the texture of a hockey puck. I called the host family. The parents were out of town and their high school daughter answered.
"Hey," I said, feeling slightly uneasy. I was hoping the muffins would magically appear at my door without having to ask. I barged forward. "I was wondering if I could get my basket back." Yes, that is the reason I am calling. It is all about the basket. I should have left it there, but no. "I was also wondering if you had any of those muffins left. I have to bring a snack to Lego Club and I thought I could bring some of the leftovers..." It wasn't really me talking. It was some alter-ego that thinks muffins have feelings and no food should go to waste. An alter-ego who was oblivious to the fact that asking for food back is at best odd and at worst rude.
"Oh. Sure. We have about eight left."
Eight? That's odd, I thought. I thought there would have been 26 or 22 at the least.
"I only need six," I said, still not fully aware, but awakening to the absurdity of asking for my muffins back.
Their daughter brought back our basket, plus the muffins in a cute little tupperware with the red rim. I thought she would have just left the muffins in the basket with a paper towel or napkin. No. She had to put them in a nice container. Her mother probably taught her good manners and how to be nice and tidy, damn her. Returning the tupperware means I have to admit to the parents that I am almost insane.
"Thanks for the muffins," the daughter said as she handed me the basket. "They were really good."
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